


Butch & Sundance

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-23 11:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick gets sent on a rescue mission. Nothing ever goes the way Pete plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butch & Sundance

  
Patrick learned a long time ago not to ask ‘why me’. He used to ask, but the variety of answers never actually answered the question – and he’s heard enough ‘because you’re _Patrick_ ’ and ‘because you love me’ and ‘why not you’ to last him the rest of his life. Which is why, even though he’s on a Fall Out Boy hiatus and therefore not answerable to Pete Wentz in any way, shape or form, he’s on a plane to fucking _Uruguay_ , mounting what is probably going to go down as the most unwelcome rescue mission on record.

“I want it noted that I’m going under protest.” Pete isn’t even at the airport to see him off, which is kind of like adding insult to injury, but Pete showing up at an airport usually causes a security nightmare that Patrick doesn’t want to deal with. Not to mention one of the last times Pete was on a flight that involved Gabe, he ended up with stitches. “And I hate you.”

“Duly noted, Lunchbox.” Pete sounds happy, which pisses Patrick off even more. “You’re doing the world a great service.”

“If I get him to come back, I’m doing Uruguay a great service.”

“Now don’t say that, Patrick.” There’s a hint of a pout in Pete’s voice, a whine that Patrick’s fairly certain he’s learned from Bronx. Or possibly Pete’s just never matured beyond Bronx’s age. “You’re going to hurt Gabe’s feelings.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t hurt Gabe.” Patrick sighs as they call his flight. “Don’t get into trouble while I’m gone.”

“Define trouble.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“But Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaatr-” Patrick closes the phone mid-protest and sighs, shouldering his laptop bag and heading for the gate. He has a production job and he’s supposed to be working on another project, not to mention promoting the film and writing two articles. He doesn’t have time to traipse to Uruguay in search of wayward DecayDance acts, and only the thought of _Pete and Gabe_ loose in South America has him handing over his ticket.

Sometimes Patrick really, _really_ hates his life.

**

Despite popular belief, growing up in suburban Chicago hasn’t really honed Patrick’s knowledge of Spanish, so getting off the plane in Montevideo is kind of like a comedy of errors, except for the funny parts. He’s been on a plane for the better part of 20 hours and he’s not even sure which day it is. His eyes hurt and his back hurts and he has a document on his computer now named “ways2killpete.doc” and a spreadsheet labeled “gabewillsufferohyes.xls”. He’s not sure that he’ll use either of them, but he feels better just having them. He’d also feel better having a tour guide or a book of Spanish phrases or some _fucking_ idea of what he’s supposed to be doing, but he has a feeling that, much like with most of Pete’s better planned “ideas”, he’s flying solo.

He turns on his phone and he’s got fifteen messages and 150 texts, all from Pete. Patrick scrolls through them knowing better than to hope any of them might be pertinent or helpful. One the last ones – buried in between a series of thirty texts about Hemingway and Rigby and Bronx and the similarities that frightens Patrick enough that he’s not sure if he should call child protection services or the animal control people – is one that includes Gabe’s cousin’s phone number as well as an address.

Miracles may never cease.

Of course, like most people in South America, Gabe’s cousin speaks Spanish. Rapid-fire Spanish that sounds nothing like any of the phrases in the book Patrick buys at the airport. He’s still stuck at _Hola_ and flipping through pages to find the equivalent of ‘Can I please have Gabe so I can get out of here?’ when he hears Gabe’s voice in the background. Recording _Viva La Cobra_ had given Patrick _plenty_ of opportunity to hear Gabe swear in Spanish, and the sound is ingrained in his head. “Gabe!”

“ _Gabriel_?” The name sounds different said properly and Patrick nods before he realizes how completely ridiculous that is. “Yes. Si. Si. Si. Yes. Gabriel. Yes. Si.”

“ _Un momento, por favor_.”

There’s another conversation that Patrick is reasonably certain involves whoever answered the phone explaining to Gabe that someone who might be mentally unstable is on the line for him. Patrick’s not absolutely certain it’s not the truth anyway, so he just waits until he hears the far away echoing sound of the phone changing hands, and then Gabe’s on the line. “Saporta.”

“Gabe. Hi. Hi. It’s Patrick.”

“Stump?”

“Yeah, it’s not like I said it was Alex. How many Patricks do you know?”

“About seven.” Gabe’s voice has a laugh in it, and Patrick knows it’s at his expense. “Not that I don’t love you, Stump, but you’re on hiatus and you never call me. What’s up? Pete okay?”

“Define okay. And remember we’re talking about Pete here.”

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Patrick can hear the sound of life going on behind Gabe, and he wonders briefly what he must sound like on the other end of the line. “So, once again, we’re back to wondering why you’re calling and how you got this number and why you called it instead of my cell.”

Patrick makes a mental note to add another document listing the ways besides ‘am in a band and friendship with Pete Wentz’ that he’s an idiot. He’d never even thought of Gabe’s cell. “Well, the answer to that is funny.”

“Funny.” Gabe’s voice is pure smirk and Patrick really ought to just turn around and catch a plane back to Chicago. “I could use a good joke. Tell me something funny, Stump.”

“I’m in Uruguay.”

“You’re _where_?”

“At the airport.” Patrick’s voice feels tight from too much recycled air, too much air conditioning. The sky outside the windows is the kind of blue Patrick used to think only existed in magazines and movies, made up colors from crayon boxes that never existed in Chicago. “In Montevideo.”

Gabe laughs and says it again, the soft roll of it in Spanish much better than Patrick’s butchering of it. “Yeah, yeah,” Patrick makes a face, smirking with annoyance that he’s sure comes through in his voice. “You’re very Spanish.”

“Uruguayan.”

“Whatever. Come get me?”

“Why are you here?”

“Also the same degree of funny. Are you coming to pick me up?” Gabe laughs and hangs up, which Patrick really hopes is a yes. He texts Pete as he grabs his duffel bag and laptop bag and heads for the front curb.

“u suck & I hate u. fucker”

**

Gabe honks the horn five times before Patrick realizes he’s honking at _him_ , or even that it’s Gabe in the driver’s seat. His skin is darker from the sun and the car looks like something out of a James Bond movie. “Does getting in that thing make me Pussy Galore or something?”

“No, but it can get it for you.” Gabe leans over and swings the door open. Patrick stows his stuff in what’s probably laughably called the back seat and gets in, barely snapping his seatbelt before Gabe takes off, weaving between cars. Patrick would feel more comfortable if Gabe actually lived in a city where he drove and had practice at this, rather than feeling like he’s in a live-action version of _Grand Theft Auto_.

“You could slow down.”

“No.” Patrick’s actually glad Gabe’s not spouting out small talk as he drives, far too fast for the curvy roads they’re winding on, the city as unreal as the sky, the mountains they’re heading toward like something out of another movie, something lush and tropical and removed - The deserted volcanic island of some evil overlord or somewhere full of hidden dinosaurs or treasure.

“So we’re going to your cousin’s?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re just a regular fucking conversationalist, aren’t you? You do realize I flew a zillion miles and twenty hours to come and see you.”

“Yeah. We haven’t gotten to the ‘why’ of that exactly, you know.” Gabe casts a quick glance at Patrick and gives him a shit-eating grin. “I mean, surprise visits are awesome, don’t get me wrong, but dude, this is kind of extreme.”

“Pete made me do it.”

Gabe nearly chokes on his laugh, and if he weren’t the one driving, Patrick would wish he would. Instead he just flips Gabe off and goes back to staring at the scenery. He thinks about texting Pete again and then considers turning off his phone for the rest of his stay. He laughs at the thought and then does it, tossing the phone in the back seat. Gabe watches with a crooked eyebrow and then smiles. “Welcome to fucking Uruguay, man.”

**

Most of Gabe’s family speaks English and they’re all welcoming in spite of the fact that Patrick dropped in on them completely unannounced. Still, several of the older generation either don’t speak English or at least don’t think Patrick’s worth the effort, murmuring softly in Spanish whenever he’s around.

After a dinner of more food than Patrick has seen in a long time, none of which he can name, a group of cousins close in age to either him or Gabe lead the way up the twisting road to the top of a nearby mountain. There’s a fire in a pit spitting sparks into a cloudless star-filled night. Someone hands Patrick a bottle of beer and someone else throws more wood on the fire, and in the haze of smoke, someone starts to sing.

Patrick closes his eyes and listens, not caring that he doesn’t understand the words. A guitar picks up the tune, and Patrick lets it all wash over him. He sips his beer and inhales wood smoke and doesn’t remember much else until there’s a soft mattress against his back and a pillow cradling his head. He thinks Gabe says goodnight, but he also thinks maybe he’s just dreaming it.

The next morning there’s _more_ food and coffee and chile-spiced hot chocolate that makes Patrick’s body shiver and his throat constrict. He calls it the best drink he’s ever had until Gabe reminds him of the drink Suarez made him the night _Viva La Cobra_ hit the streets, and Patrick has to amend it to the second-best drink. Gabe’s aunt promises him that, unlike with any drink Suarez makes, Patrick should remember the rest of the day.

He’s glad of the promise when Gabe takes him sightseeing, showing him places that aren’t in the guidebooks. He sees beaches and small towns, monuments and wilderness just miles from villages and cities and they meet people who all seem to know Gabe, or at least accept him and, by extension, Patrick.

“I can see why you want to stay.”

“What?” Gabe finishes the last of his lunch, licking sauce off his lips. A distraction of contrasts – dark skin, white teeth, bright red tongue – and it takes Patrick a few seconds to realize he needs to repeat what he said.

“It’s amazing here, and I can see why you don’t want to go back.”

Gabe takes a drink of the wine in his glass, fruit-sweet sangria from Brazil, and stares at Patrick thoughtfully. It’s unnerving to be on the receiving end of _any_ stare of Gabe’s, but this one seems even more daunting. “Let’s go.”

“Um, okay.” Patrick stands, hurrying after Gabe and barely getting the car door shut before Gabe has the wheels spinning dirt on the way out of the parking lot. Patrick snaps his seatbelt as the car fishtails around a curb. “Might want to, um, slow down. Maybe.” He grips the edges of his seat as Gabe puts on another burst of speed, sailing around another corner and then spinning out onto a ragged shoulder as he narrowly avoids a herd of donkeys.

They sit there in dead silence for a long time, only the sputtering of the car and the cursing of the farmer in the air along with the dust from the gravel they spun through. Patrick’s pretty sure the seatbelt is embedded in his chest.

“Or not.”

Gabe looks at him, eyes wide and scared, and then he starts laughing - wild, obnoxious, oh-my-god-we’re-not-dead laughter that catches at Patrick and pulls him into it as well. It’s manic and desperate and shaky and there’s nearly a full five minutes of that before Gabe chokes on a sob and Patrick punches him hard in the arm.

“Ow.” Gabe coughs and then frowns. “Ow. What the fuck?”

“What the _fuck_?” Patrick punches him again for good measure. “You almost killed us, you stupid douche.”

“At most we would have taken out some donkeys.”

“Yeah, and I can see the news reports now. ‘Secret lovers Saporta and Stump slaughter farmer’s livelihood in wild romantic getaway’.”

“Why are we lovers?” Gabe turns off the car and it seems to shudder all around them. “Why can’t we just be down here collaborating?”

“Because that’s not tawdry enough to sell papers, and Pete’s mostly boring now.” Patrick undoes his seatbelt and opens his door, climbing out of the car on shaky legs. “Not that either of us are going to sell papers. You maybe.”

“Are you fishing for compliments?” Gabe climbs out as well. “You want me to tell you you’re pretty, Patrick?”

“Fuck you.” Patrick flips him off and then leans against the side of the car, not sure his legs will support him all on their own.

Gabe walks around the car, using it for support, then slumps back against it beside Patrick. “You okay?”

“I will be as soon as my heart stops running at the speed of light.” He glances at Gabe out of the corner of his eye. “You?”

“Yeah. Mostly. Fuck. The first thing that flashed through my head is that Pete was going to fucking kill me if I let anything happen to you.” He rolls his eyes and looks away. “Of course, it’d be his own stupid fucking fault.”

“That you live in New York and therefore don’t know how to drive?”

“No, asshole.” Gabe pushes off the car and turns to look at him. “That you’re even _here_. What the fuck, seriously?”

“He saw your tweet…”

“Yeah, and instead of, I don’t fucking know, taking it for what it was or calling me and finding out what was up or even thinking, you know, that I just broke up with my long-time girlfriend and maybe was glad to be around family instead of screaming fans and the business, he fucking sends _you_ to bring me home?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with you, Stump.” Gabe sighs and kicks a group of rocks toward the shallow trail of water running alongside the road in a ditch. “But if the fucker was worried about me, maybe _he_ should have come.”

“We try not to let Pete travel internationally if we can avoid it. He’d probably start a coup. Possibly accidentally.”

Gabe smirks and sighs. “So he roped you into wrangling me to come back. You’re aware I’m actually scheduled to be here for a month and I’ve only been here a week, right? So your presence isn’t actually required for at least another two.”

“Pete knows you’re a tough nut to crack.” Patrick pulls off his hat and runs a hand through his hair before putting the hat back on. “I think he was worried and reacted in a particularly Pete-like fashion.”

“And why did you say yes?”

Patrick laughs and shakes his head. “Because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have gotten a moments peace between the phone calls and the text messages and the emails and the blog posts and the Twitter messages. Trust me, when it comes to Pete, it’s always a hell of a lot more efficient to just admit defeat before you want to kill yourself as well as him.”

“Fair enough.” Gabe shoves off the car and takes a deep breath. Patrick watches him, noting that Gabe looks better than he has since his surgery, since before his surgery. He looks relaxed and rested and not nearly as manic. “You should know though that you’re now caught in this between Wentz and myself.”

“Gabe…”

He turns a sly gaze to Patrick before heading to the driver’s side. “And you’re a prisoner of war.”

**

As far as being a prisoner goes, Patrick figures he’s got it pretty good. Sure, he has to call and reschedule some stuff and he’s relatively certain that if he told Gabe he _had_ to get back to the States, Gabe would drive him to the airport, and it’s not like he doesn’t have his laptop to send in his articles and get some other stuff done. In fact, really, it’s pretty much just a vacation where he only sporadically understands the language. The worst parts are when Gabe speaks Spanish, because he can tell when Gabe’s talking about him, as it usually ends in laughter. There are times when Patrick hates Gabe more than Pete – all of which usually involve Gabe saying _Patricio_ and laughing – but Patrick knows that’s just because he hasn’t retrieved his phone from the back of Gabe’s car and he just deletes Pete’s emails unread.

He knows he’s being childish, but he’s also relaxing, which is part of what this hiatus is for, at least in theory. Gabe takes him places – nightclubs and beaches and private family parties. He gets his picture taken like a normal person, not by half-crazed paparazzi thinking he’s someone worth telling the world about. He sends Joe a picture of him with five girls on the beach, all of them topless – even Patrick, and showing the signs of a tan – and Joe probably makes sure it makes the rounds.

“So you’re involved in a South American harem, huh?” Gabe’s stretched out on the bed that, as far as Patrick can garner from Gabe’s aunt Carla who speaks no English at all, belongs to Gabe’s cousin Arturo. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and hasn’t shaved in nearly two weeks. He looks ridiculous, and Patrick’s told him so, which only seems to make Gabe more determined to look like some mountain guerilla.

“What?” Patrick looks up from the laptop where he’s working on a song, something that doesn’t have lyrics or anything, but isn’t just a score.

Gabe flips his phone around so Patrick can see the picture. He looks weird and pixilated and nothing like himself, but he recognizes the hat and the five pairs of breasts are really hard to forget.

“Oh.” Patrick doesn’t remember where Gabe was that day, but he’d been on his own with the car and the sun, so he’d wound up on the beach and some passing woman with another spectacular pair of breasts had offered to take the picture for him. He said yes, obviously, and will tell anyone that tries to argue that he looked her in the eye when he said it. “Yeah. Well. No. I just told Joe I was at the beach.”

“With your love harem.” Gabe draws the words out and makes them sound dirtier and more ridiculous than they already are, so Patrick throws a pencil at him. Gabe bats it away and it bounces back to hit Patrick in the ass.

“Hey! There are rules for the treatment of prisoners of war, dude.”

“Do they include letting said prisoners gallivant around with five sets of boobies and no adult supervision?” Gabe shuts his phone and turns on his side, looking at Patrick. He’s smiling, which is less comforting than most other people’s smiles, because he’s Gabe Saporta, which is a warning in and of itself. “Because I’m pretty sure the Geneva Convention doesn’t say you get to do that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure there are a lot of things the Geneva Convention didn’t mention that still get done.”

“If this is some weird desire you have to be water boarded, Patrick, you are just shit out of luck. I’m not into that kinky shit.”

He hides his choking laughter in a cough, but Gabe’s smirk is more than enough evidence that he knows exactly what Patrick thought of the comment. He closes his laptop and stretches, making a low sound as his muscles protest the movement. “I should probably head home soon.”

“And let Pete win? No way. Dude. My month is up in another week, and at that point, I’m taking you on the run.”

“Gabe…”

“We’re heading for the hills, Stump. You and me. Butch and Sundance. I’m obviously Butch.” That earns another laugh Patrick doesn’t even _try_ to hide and this time Gabe smacks him upside the head with a pillow. Patrick grabs it as Gabe tries to follow through and jerks, pulling Gabe off the bed in a tumble of limbs and squawks of outrage. “Fucker.”

Patrick smiles serenely. “Dude. I share a bus with _Pete Wentz_.”

“Yeah? Well, I share one with Victoria Asher.” Gabe grabs the other pillow, and before Patrick can react, Gabe nails him across the face again. It goes to hell pretty quickly, because if there’s one thing you learn on the road, it’s how to fight dirty (and Dirty, in Fall Out Boy’s case), and neither of them stop until they’re both exhausted, sprawled on the floor in a mess of destroyed pillows. “Shit.”

“Your cousin, Arturo, is going to kill you.”

“Fuck that, dude. My Aunt Carla is going to kill us _both_.” He sits up, Jew-fro gone wild now that it’s grown back from his own hack-job, feathers and straw in his hair and beard. He looks like a refugee or something out of a bad foreign film. Patrick has to laugh. “Oh, yeah. Laugh now, Stump, but you are in just as much shit as I am.”

“At least I don’t look as ridiculous.”

“Ha!” Gabe shakes his head, sending debris flying everywhere. Patrick bats away the straw and sits up as well, getting a glimpse of them both in the mirror hanging on the back of the door.

“Okay. So I _do_ look as ridiculous.” His hat is dangling off one ear and his hair looks like he combed it with an eggbeater. Feathers are stuck to his sweat-damp skin and he probably actually looks _worse_ than Gabe.

“You look like the fox coming out of the henhouse.” Gabe reaches over and swipes away two feathers stuck to Patrick’s bottom lip. Patrick knows better than to drop his defenses though, so he nearly takes Gabe’s fingers off at the knuckles. “Hey!” Gabe snatches his hand back and then shoves him, sending Patrick sprawling on the floor, his hat flying under the bed and his head hitting the base of the mirror.

“OW.”

“You almost _bit_ me, you fucker.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That doesn’t require _biting_. Jesus.” Gabe looks his hand over to make sure all the pieces are still there. “I _use_ those fingers, dude.”

“Not for anything important.”

Gabe’s eyes go wide and he moves over Patrick, straddling him to hold him down on the floor. Patrick’s not sure when he lost control of this, but he knows that he has. Pete’s schooled Patrick very well on knowing he’s lost control of a situation. “Are you attempting to pull musical superiority on me, Stump?”

“No. I thought we were talking about sex or something.”

“Oh.” Gabe sits back a little and then frowns. “Hey!”

“God, you’re easier than Pete.”

“No one’s easier than Pete.”

“Fair enough.” Patrick struggles to sit up under Gabe’s weight, managing to pull himself up against the mirror so Gabe’s effectively on his lap instead of holding him down. “You can get off of me, you know.”

“Yeah, but then you’ll either be mean to me or try to separate me from some of my body parts, all of which I’m quite fond of and attached to.”

“I promise to behave.” Patrick leans to the side to grab his hat, but Gabe’s longer arms beat him to it, holding it out of Patrick’s reach before settling it on top of his own head. He looks absolutely ridiculous. “Yes, you’re a regular Che Guevara. Give me my hat and get your ass off of me.”

“Bitchy, bitchy.” Gabe stands up and offers a hand to Patrick. He takes it grudgingly and stands up, swiping his hat away from Gabe.

“You’d better clean this mess up.”

“Why me?” Gabe laughs. “You made just as much of it as I did.”

“Yeah, but you’re family. I’m a guest.”

**

When Patrick opens his eyes the next morning, there’s a pile of feathers and straw lying on the floor next to his bed and a sign scrawled in dark black letters, words underlined and punctuated with exclamation points, all of it in Spanish. He raises an eyebrow and looks across the room at where Gabe’s pretending to sleep.

“Are you threatening me?” The _Cornholio_ accent sucks and he knows it, but it makes Gabe’s mouth twitch in a smile. Patrick climbs out of his bed and goes over to Gabe, jabbing him in the stomach. “You! Are you _threatening_ me?”

Gabe loses his fight with his laughter, curling in on himself enough that Patrick knows he’s got a weak spot to work with. He starts tickling before Gabe can react and he gets a good few minutes in before Gabe is writhing on the bed, batting at Patrick’s hands and sending them both off the mattress onto the floor. He hits his head again in the same spot as the day before and groans.

“You ok-ow. Fuck. Jesus, Stump. I’m supposed to be the bony fucker.” Gabe manages to sit up, legs tangled with Patrick’s. “You okay?”

“Pete’s going to be pissed if I go home with a concussion.” He sits up as well, rubbing the back of his head. “You’re hazardous to my health.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

“Ha. Like I haven’t heard that line before, Saporta. Someone letting you make something up to them usually involves the circumstances getting worse and jail time.” He points at Gabe accusingly. “And the jail time is _never_ for you.”

“You wound me right to my soul, Patrick Stump.” He gets to his feet and sits on the edge of the bed, yawning into his hand. “You want the first shower?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m being a good host, dickweed.” He stretches out his legs and then arches his back, a few of his vertebrae popping. “Besides, today we’re going on an adventure.”

“No way.”

“Yup. Pete wants photos of the prisoner. So photos Pete’s gonna get.”

Patrick doesn’t think during his shower, just gets in and gets out and gets dressed. He’s found it serves him well not to think too much about anything that involves plans, Pete and/or Gabe, and getting even. The less he knows, the more plausible deniability he has when the authorities get involved. He considers hiding while Gabe takes his shower, but the thought of what Gabe would exact in revenge for having to find him keeps him sitting on the bed after disposing of the pillow remains. He dumps them in the trashcan outside the house, nearly dropping the lid when Aunt Carla comes out of the kitchen and waves at him, calling out a hello.

He waves and hurries back to the bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest, louder than after the near accident. Gabe comes out of the bathroom, jeans low around his waist and the towel draped over his shoulders. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Your Aunt Carla.”

“What? Did she grab your ass?” He raises his voice and shouts something in Spanish and Patrick launches himself at Gabe to slap his hand over Gabe’s mouth before he can say more than a couple of words. “What?” Gabe mumbles behind Patrick’s palm.

“You’re not allowed to get the prisoner _killed_.”

“You’re the one who said Aunt Carla grabbed your ass.”

“No, I didn’t say anything of the kind. And you know it.” He steps back. “I hate you. You and Pete. You should rot in the lower echelons of hell and be boiled alive in oil. Smelly oil. Sulfur. Sulfur-y oil.”

“Sulfur’s not an oil, dude.”

“I’m still close enough that I could knee you in the junk, Saporta.” Patrick glares at him, eyes narrowing as Gabe starts to smile. “What?”

“You’re so cute when you’re cranky, Patrick. Really. It’s no wonder Pete loves you most of all.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Not yet,” Gabe assures him, walking toward his bed just far enough to snap Patrick in the ass with the towel. “But probably by the time the day is over.”

**

Gabe takes him into Montevideo, and Patrick’s almost forgot what cities are like. There are people everywhere, Spanish and English and Portuguese and German and Italian in the air. Patrick feels the energy buzzing around him, waves of it like on the stage. Gabe’s wearing a smile that lets Patrick know he’s feeling the same thing. He’s lost the languid carry of his body, coiled up until he’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Of course, he’s also intent on humiliating Patrick, so instead of actually seeing any of Cuidad Vieja or Mercardo del Puerto, he gets tugged around to the cheesiest, most touristy places.

The first indignity involves a Mariachi band and a sombrero the size of a café table, woven from straw dyed in every conceivable color. There are also thick strands of yarn hanging from the brim, each ending with a puffed ball, also in hideously bright colors. “I look like Wham! met Cobra Starship in a dark alley.”

“Wham! and Cobra Starship are both afraid of dark alleys, except for illegal public solicitations and drug use.” Gabe holds up a camera and takes a picture of Patrick as the Mariachi band starts playing. Patrick’s pretty sure he looks humiliated, which he’s kind of gotten used to _not_ being since the hiatus started. “Smile, Patrick. You’re so _cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuute_.”

“You’re going to die a miserable, horrible death, Saporta, and I am going to watch and laugh.”

“We’ve barely gotten started.” Gabe pays the band and starts walking, leaving Patrick with the choice to follow him and eventually be done with all of this, or stay and navigate Montevideo and Uruguay on his own. The second choice is appealing, but Gabe’s got his phone, laptop and passport hostage, so Patrick doesn’t really have a choice. Like all good captors and evil overlords, Gabe just gives the illusion of freedom.

“I hate you, you know.”

“I know, Stumpy. Try to keep up.” Gabe keeps moving and Patrick submits himself to horrors he knows will make Pete cackle with glee. There’s the one with the soldiers, and the one with the police and there’s one in a small wedding chapel that has the Uruguayan equivalent of Elvis. Patrick keeps trying to leave the sombrero behind, but Gabe either sees it and snags it and slaps it back on his head or he hears a faint, _pardon, senor_ , and someone’s handing it back to him.

Halfway through the day, Gabe stops torturing him and takes him to a café where they eat lunch and drink local beers, spending just as much time talking as eating, even though they’ve been together pretty much non-stop for three weeks. Patrick tries to keep it neutral, but finally he has to say something. “Explain one thing to me?”

“Do I get to pick the thing? Because if you ask me to explain sex, you have to lie to Pete about where you learned it from.” His fingers curl around the neck of his beer and he takes a long drink. “It’s in our contracts that we will do everything within our power to keep his Patrick Stump as pure and clean as the driven snow.”

“You guys are all assholes.”

“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.” Gabe sets his beer on the table and gives Patrick an open, relaxed smile. “So, go on. What do you want explained?”

“Today has been like a trip through Tijuana in a bad 80s movie.” Patrick sighs and takes a drink of his own beer. “And as much as I appreciate being a pawn in your game of one-upsmanship with Pete, I’m a little confused as to how this affects him at all. I mean, my own humiliation aside, Pete’s just getting to see the pictures and laugh his ass off at my expense.”

“That would be true,” Gabe agrees, “except there’s one flaw in your logic.”

“What’s that?”

“Pete is inherently and kind of unnaturally protective of you. I won’t say he doesn’t like to see you humiliated, made fun of or just generally embarrassed, but he hates it when you’re humiliated, made fun of or embarrassed by someone who _isn’t_ him. It’s a family thing where you can say whatever you want to your sibling, but God help anyone else who does, you know?”

“So you humiliating me pisses him off.”

“And it makes me laugh.”

“You are such a douche.”

“Yeah.” Gabe leans in, not bothering to hide his smile. “But I want you to explain one thing to me.”

Patrick shrugs and nods. “Yeah. Okay. What?”

“Why are _you_ doing it?” Gabe turns his gaze back to his beer as if he doesn’t expect Patrick to answer. Patrick doesn’t, simply because he doesn’t have one.

**

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Pete follows Patrick to the baggage claim without saying anything, which is pretty impressive for Pete. Patrick gives all the credit to Bronx who is riding in the carrier on Pete’s back and tugging on Pete’s hair and keeping him distracted. They get a few looks from the other passengers, but it’s late enough at night that Patrick’s not too worried about a bunch of overzealous fans or TMZ. “I know you’re mad.”

“No. No.” Patrick turns and points at Pete, close enough that he’s almost touching his nose. “I was mad. I was mad and irritated and annoyed and put upon and pissed off. And then I got over it and I had a very nice time, which is the only reason I’m not killing you.”

“Well, if you got over it, then why are you ma-”

“Because you _used_ me, Pete, and it pisses me off. You took advantage of the fact that I like you and like Gabe and want you to be happy and you sent me on a wild goose chase, and I think I have every right to be angry.”

“But, Pa-”

“Even worse, I let myself be used, and so I kind of hate myself too, and I hate Saporta and it’s a damn good thing we’re on hiatus because I don’t know that I want to hang around with you right now, and it’d be ugly if we had to cancel a tour because I killed you with your own iPod cord.”

“Apple wouldn’t appreciate the bad press.”

“Just…” Patrick sighs and grabs his bag as it comes along the conveyor in front of him. “Just give me a ride home, huh?”

“Yeah.” Pete looks chastised, which makes him look smaller and younger than he actually is, and has the side effect of making Patrick feel like a bully. If he were in anything closer to resembling a forgiving mood, he’d let it get to him, but for now he’s still clinging to the fact that Pete should feel lucky Patrick didn’t just change his flight and go back to Los Angeles.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stump?”

Patrick stops and turns around, surprised to see airport security and an airline representative approaching. “Yes?”

“You forgot this, sir.”

“I only had the one bag.” He shakes his head and looks down at the box, four feet long and two feet tall and wrapped in brown paper with Gabe’s handwriting scratched on it. “Oh.”

“What is it?” Pete asks. “A present?”

“It’s the fucking sombrero.” Patrick takes the box with a terse ‘thank-you’ and stomps off toward the parking garage. Given the laughter following him, it’s a damn good thing Pete’s keeping his distance.

Pete gets his giggles under control by the time they’re in the car, Bronx talking to himself in the back seat the only sound. Patrick’s tired again, and confused about what day it is – whether he’s lost one or gained one or if he’s right back where he started – and he’s not really looking forward to going home to his empty house.

“I’m sorry,” Pete says quietly. “I just didn’t think. As usual.”

“I’m not…” Patrick sighs and shakes his head. “I’m not mad. I mean, I’m mad, but not as mad as I was and not as mad as I _should_ be.”

“I was really worried he’d stay.” Pete frowns and tightens his hands on the wheel. “I mean, not _worried_ worried, but I thought maybe he needed a friend. And you’re my best friend and you always make me feel better, so I thought you could do the same thing for him.”

“You’re a complete idiot, Wentz.” There’s nothing but affection in the words and Pete ducks his head a little. “Don’t ever do it again.”

Pete nods, casting an impish grin at Patrick. “I won’t. Scout’s honor.”

**

Patrick spends a week in Chicago and then goes back to Los Angeles, working on his projects. He spends most of his time in the studio with a couple different bands, sometimes on full albums and sometimes just on tracks. He likes producing, putting on different metaphorical hats for each of the people he works with.

The problem is that Los Angeles is…Los Angeles. It’s filled with people he doesn’t want to see doing things he doesn’t want to do. He spends a lot of his time at Pete and Ashlee’s place, babysitting Bronx and playing video games and ignoring the pointed comments about them being on a _hiatus_ from each other.

He’s lying in their spare bedroom, not really wanting to go back to his apartment when Pete comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. Patrick looks over at him and manages a weak smile as Pete sighs. “Dude.”

“I know. I know. I’m going.”

“No. No, it’s not that. I don’t care if you stay the night. Hell, I don’t care if you crash here permanently, and you know that. Just…dude. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing. Nothing. Right. P-Stump, you are a liar of the highest order and I would appreciate you not fucking with me.” Pete stretches out on the bed next to him, resting his head on Patrick’s chest. Patrick smiles and wraps his arm around his shoulders, holding him close. “You’d better tell me or I’ll sing to you. I’ll start singing and I’ll never stop until Rigby and Hemingway and Bronx are all howling and you’re begging for mercy.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m still under the purview of the Geneva Convention, and that would constitute cruel and unusual punishment.”

“The Geneva Convention?” Pete lifts his head and gives Patrick a confused look. “I don’t get it. You went to Uruguay, not Guantanamo.”

“Nothing.” Patrick kisses the top of Pete’s head. “This time it really is nothing.” He slips out from under Pete and gets to his feet. “I’ll catch you later, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Pete’s frowning when he sits up, watching Patrick get his shoes on and head for the door. “Patrick?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re weirder than me, man.”

“Nope. That’s not humanly possible.”

He drives back to his place and puts on a pot of coffee, booting up his laptop and turning on the television as well. One of the best parts about hiatus is that his TiVo doesn’t die of overload and he can watch shows almost in time with the rest of the world. He doesn’t start anything though, just leans against the counter in the kitchen and watches the coffee pot, listening to the inane background chatter of some sitcom. He pulls out his phone and flips the screen, going through numbers until he finds the one he wants.

“u didn’t tell pw about the treatment of pows?”

He’s not sure where Gabe is these days, though he knows he’s on another continent, which means he’s not sure what time it is wherever Gabe is. Not that time and day and night mean much to any of them, especially when they’re on tour.

“once u were returned 2 his custody u were no longer pow”

“he threatened me w singing.”

“weapon of mass destruction.”

“where r u?”

“amsterdam. smoking up while its legal.”

“awaiting the police reports.”

“tmz got nothing on me out here.”

“ur a bad influence on nate.”

“bad influence on vrybdy, bb.”

“y.y. make gd grls go bad.”

“not just girls ps. make vrybdy go bad.”

“not me.”

“scared of wentz.”

“liar.”

“have u seen his teeth? fucker would bite me worse than u tried to. bunch of vampires. worse than mcr.”

“admit it. turned u on.”

“u know it ps. nothing like losing digits to get a guys motor running.”

“ur motor always running.”

“it is. running now. gotta jet. peace.”

Patrick tucks his phone away and pours himself a cup of coffee, sitting down in front of his computer and booting up Garage Band as he flips the TiVo to the latest episode of _Mythbusters_. The coffee’s too hot on his tongue, but it doesn’t stop him from smiling.

**

“u need new stories.”

“u need 2 stop watching internet videos.”

“my life would be empty wo internet porn.”

“ur life is sad stump.”

“obvs. spending time texting u.”

“u wound my fragile ego.”

“its so big it makes good target.”

“don’t u have pw to pick on?”

“were on hiatus.”

“lucky me.”

Patrick rubs his thumb over the keyboard on his sidekick then closes the phone. He has plenty of work to do, three tracks he’s nearly put to bed, and lyrics from Pete in an email and a notebook filled with scribbled on receipts, napkins and scraps of paper that he’s supposed to sort through and make sense of instead of making Pete actually write _in_ the notebook rather than just using it for storage. Living with Pete’s ‘here are the contents of my head’ lyrical stylings is nothing new, but Patrick isn’t sure he’s up to the task now. He’s about to call it a night when the phone rings. He thinks about not taking it, but he knows better than to not answer - another lesson he’s learned from the contents of Pete’s head.

“Stump.”

“Patrick. Why are you awake? It’s four in the morning.”

“The real question, Pete, is if you thought I was asleep, why did you call?”

“I knew you weren’t asleep.”

“You promised to have the video cameras removed.” Pete laughs and Patrick feels the creep of paranoia start up his spine. “Peter.”

“No. No cameras, dude. Honest.” He tones his laugh down to a giggle that escapes now and then. “I just got a text from Gabe. He said I needed to get you laid.”

“What?” Patrick ignores the pinprick of…something in his chest, refusing to acknowledge it exists, much less trying to figure out what it means. “Why would Gabe say that? And does he really hate me so much that he suggested _you_ help?”

“Hey now. I married Ashlee. I have excellent taste in hot women.”

“Yes, and all of those hot women are interested in you, not the dumpy redhead next to you on stage.”

“You know I’m not fucking kidding about the intervention. You keep putting yourself down and we’re going to lock you in a room full of mirrors and tell you how awesome you are until you admit it.”

“As much as I appreciate you being willing to sponsor me at Lack of Self-Esteem Anonymous…” He breaks off as Pete starts laughing again, the uncontrollable bray that always makes Patrick smile, usually against his will. “Okay, seriously. What’s so funny?”

  
“Lack…” Pete pauses to catch his breath. “Lack of Self-Esteem Anonymous.”

“It’s not that funny.”

“No. No. The…” Pete fights down another skittering slide of giggles. “The acronym. It’s lose-a. Like loser.”

“Or lo-sea.”

He can almost hear Pete’s frown. “But that’s not _funny_.”

Patrick laughs at the wounded voice. “Okay. Yours is funny, but the point is…”

“The point is you’ve been texting Gabe, and he’s afraid you’re going all Jack Nicholson in _The Shining_.”

“He doesn’t want me to text him?”

“Okay, hi, Mr. Missing-the-point. He didn’t say that. He’s just a little worried that you’ve gone off the deep end and pretty soon there’s going to be an axe and ‘all work and no play make Patrick a dull boy’.” Pete sighs and Patrick can picture him, dressed in some oversized hoodie and sitting on the couch, wrapped up in waiting for morning. “You’re a rock star. You aren’t on the road all the time now and you have freedom to do stuff.”

“I _am_ doing stuff.”

“No. You’re working. Which is not doing stuff. Like dating chicks. Hot chicks. Mediocre chicks. Chicks with awesome personalities. Chicks with no personality but big breasts. Though if you find one with an awesome personality _and_ big breasts, you should just totally go ahead and marry her.”

“You just set feminism back 200 years.”

“Fuck you. Fifty, tops, because I mentioned her personality. The point is that Gabe’s right.”

“Never let him hear you say that.”

“Dude. Have you _seen_ the tattoo on my leg?”

“Right. Right. Okay. Point.” Patrick sighs and starts flipping through channels on TV without really looking at the screen. “I haven’t met anyone.”

“Which is really hard to believe given the numerous opportunities you’ve had at the studio, in your apartment or during the drive between the two. You need to get out.”

“How about I just stop texting Gabe?”

“How about you come over tomorrow night. We’re having a party.”

**

“been 24 hrs. u don’t <3 me nemore?”

“been informed need 2 find smbdy else 2 <3.”

“don’t b that way bb. know I still <3 u.”

“that why u told pw on me?”

“told? no way. mentioned wed been txtng. whtvr pw told u was lies.”

“have 2 go 2 party 2nite @his house.”

“dude. sorry man. fate worse than death.”

“ur sympathy is touching.”

“knowing pw wont b my sympathy touching u 2nite. have fun. don’t do nething I wouldn’t do.”

“is there nething u wont do?”

“dunno. haven’t tried vrything yet.”

Patrick looks at himself in the mirror and frowns. He looks…mostly like himself and he’s pretty sure that’s not what Pete’s expecting. Of course, there’s a frighteningly good chance that what Pete’s expecting is something out of the _Beat It_ video. He shrugs and tugs a dark blue sweater-vest over his white t-shirt and grabs a tan corduroy cap.

“Yo! P-Stump!” Pete’s head appears in the bedroom doorway. Pete always has a key to wherever Patrick’s staying just in case, but most of the time he uses it for non-emergencies or just to scare the shit out of Patrick.

“Fuck, Pete!” He can feel the kick to his heart, pulse thumping. “Most people fucking _knock_ when they go to someone else’s house.”

“But I have a key.”

“For _emergencies_.”

“What you’re wearing is a fashion emergency. Totally counts.”

Patrick flips him off and thumbs through his wallet before shoving it in the pocket of his jeans. “Fuck you. I look hot. Nerd chic, Wentz. The geek shall inherit the earth.”

“Yeah, after the rest of us fuck it up beyond repair.”

“Don’t try to make me change.”

“I’m not.”

“My clothes or who I am. If people don’t like the way I dress, I don’t want them to like me.”

“Patrick.” Pete’s voice is serious, his brow furrowed. “I’m not trying to change you. I _wouldn’t_ change you. I kind of love you exactly as you are and sort of think you’re perfect, remember?”

“Yeah, well.” He’s at a loss, because Pete’s right and maybe he’s being oversensitive. After all, it’s only a party.

**

Patrick’s in hell.

Not just any hell either. It’s a special type of Hollywood hell that he’s pretty sure even Dante couldn’t have dreamed up. It’s not even that he doesn’t know anybody, because he does. It’s the fact that everyone other than Patrick is either part of a couple or female, making Patrick the only game in town. As soon as he gets home, he’s finding the document he started on the way to Uruguay and adding a few things to it, refining it. Because killing Pete is now Patrick’s _mission_.

He’s hiding in the kitchen because the only people in there are the servers and, like everyone else _including_ the single females, they’re more interested in Pete and what he can do for (with) them, and they couldn’t care less about the guy hiding in with Bronx’s lifetime supply of Cheerios.

His phone’s vibration catches him off guard, and he’s careful to make sure it isn’t Pete looking for him, triangulating his position like something out of a Will Smith movie. It’s only a text, so he feels safe opening it.

“missing ur own party.”

“not my party.” He doesn’t think about what time it is where Gabe is, wherever he is.

“all work & no play ps.”

“I play.”

“guitar.”

“smart ass”

“piano”

“srsly?”

“drums.”

“ur not funny.”

“not trying 2 b. have fun. u know what fun is. its what I have.”

“I thot that was hangover & stds.”

“that 2.”

“petes scene never my scene. silly 2 pretend othrws.”

“don’t u want 2 meet some1?”

“have.”

He hits send before he can think, before he can stop himself. It’s a major tactical error, and he knows it, can feel it in every silent second. Any minute now, Pete’s phone will ring, Gabe will spill and Pete will interrogate Patrick until he gets an answer (never happens), gives up (never happens), forgets (only pretends to until you let your defenses down and then he launches a surprise attack), or something else more interesting comes along (always, four weeks tops).

He’s so busy bracing himself for Pete that he almost misses the vibration of his phone. It’s Gabe again, probably warning him to be on the lookout for Pete. One thing about Gabe, he’s always fair, never plays favorites.

“congrats.”  
**

Patrick goes back to Chicago in March, tired of L.A. He starts writing another short film, getting angry as it keeps falling apart somewhere in the middle of the narrative. He hasn’t talked to Pete much since the party, a few times to go over songs or keep each other updated on where they are. Pete’s busy working with other people too, and it’s a weird mix of freedom and loneliness.

It’s not as bad as the silence from Gabe. They’d been sending each other texts daily, but since the party, there’s been next to nothing. He’s sent texts out and Gabe’s always replied, saying just enough to say nothing at all and the conversations end before they even begin.

It’s almost May when Pete knocks on his door, and it takes Patrick a minute to recognize him. Pete looks different – his skin’s darker and his teeth seem bright in contrast, but it’s more than that. Pete is, at the best of times, loosely controlled chaos, and he looks closer than usual to unraveling. Patrick steps back, giving him space to enter. “Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” Pete stomps into the kitchen, a pseudo-tantrum that’s completely undermined when he stops to pet the three-foot tall stuffed tiger a fan gave Patrick, and Pete had named Amadeus. “You’d better have beer, Stump.”

“Why?”

“Because you guys are driving me to drink.” He disappears through the doorway then comes back with two open bottles. Patrick knows without looking that the lids are still on the counter. “Here.” Pete hands him one of the beers. “Either drink it or just hold it for me.”

Patrick takes a sip and sits down settling in his favorite chair before Pete has a chance to claim it. “So, what’s up?”

“You know this hiatus thing isn’t forever, right?”

“I’ve read the press releases, yeah.” He leans back and takes another drink. “Have I contradicted all our other contradictions recently?”

“No. You know you haven’t, because you’ve done everything but dig a moat around this place and become a hermit.”

“I don’t think the other condo owners would like it. And no I haven’t.”

“Last time you went out.”

“Thes…”

Pete cuts him off. “For fun.”

“I…”

“Exactly.” Pete takes a long pull from his bottle and points at Patrick. “You’ve gone all Cat Stevens on us, man.”

“Not going to parties is the equivalent of converting to Islam, changing my name and giving up music?”

“You’re a recluse, Patrick.”

“I’m taking a _vacation_.”

“You’re _hiding_.” He stops, his eyes on Patrick, waiting for denial. “You’re hiding and I don’t know what from, but I thought this was the stuff you said best friends were for.”

“It is, Pete.”

“Oh.” Patrick can see Pete taking it wrong, assuming all these years haven’t meant anything.

“But I don’t know why, so I can’t exactly go to you and ask for your help.”

“Why not?” Pete doesn’t look at him, but Patrick can tell he’s watching closely. “I’m pretty sure you knew fuck-all about my mental disorders when I dumped them all on you. You think you should get the benefit of knowledge?”

Patrick nods and moves over to the couch, sitting close enough to rest his head against Pete’s shoulder. “There’s someone.”

Pete jerks away, staring at him with wide eyes. “Dude. By someone, you mean…like…like a girlfriend?”

“Like that. Sort of. Yeah.”

“Patrick Stump. You have a fucking girlfriend and you don’t fucking _tell_ me? What? Do I embarrass you? Because she’s not much of a girlfriend if she’s unaware that I come part and parcel with you, dude.”

“I don’t actually have a girlfriend, Pete.”

“But you said…dude, this isn’t some creepy _Psycho_ dead body thing is it? I mean, _Boxing Helena_ is _not_ a dating manual, dude.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I mean, if you want to date someone with no limbs, I’m totally supportive, but I have to admit it’s going to be a little weird. Though she would take up less room on the bus, but dude, the internet is not going to be nice. At all.”

“She’s…it’s…Jesus, shut _up_ , Wentz.” Patrick sighs and takes a drink of his beer. “We’re not dating. We’re not anything.”

“But you said.”

“No. I said there was someone, and you ran with it. Straight to crazy town.”

“Okay.” Pete frowns. “But…”

“There’s someone I like.”

“And?”

“And nothing.” He rubs his thumb against the bottle, leaving a clear streak through the condensation. “It’s not a mutual thing.”

“But you’re Patrick.” The honest confusion in Pete’s voice makes Patrick smile. “How could someone not love you?” He takes a long drink of his beer, resting his head on Patrick’s. “I bet she’s just bitter because she doesn’t have arms and legs.”

“Yeah.” Patrick sighs, closing his eyes and swallowing down everything that talking about this has brought up. “That must be it.”

**

He hasn’t sent a text to Gabe in months, and he’s not going to apologize for whatever it is that he’s done since he doesn’t have a fucking clue. Still, it’s hard not to know what’s happening, between Pete’s constant updates and the incestuous nature of their corner of the music scene. But he doesn’t know they’re in Chicago until Pete drags him to Angels & Kings for what turns out to be a welcome home celebration. Patrick’s glad to see friends he hasn’t seen in too long – and, okay, he’ll grant that he’s been a little withdrawn and hermit-like, Pete can stop with the ‘I told you so’ looks any time now – but seeing Cobra Starship in all its glory is a little overwhelming.

No. Seeing Gabe is overwhelming.

Shit.

Pete’s at his elbow suddenly, talking a mile a minute, host and guest and so fucking happy to see his _other_ best friend that he can’t stand still, even worse than his normal state of hyperactive. Patrick tries to ignore him, but he succeeds at that about as well as he’s succeeding at not staring at Gabe and the girls he’s got on both arms, his angled hips cocked like an invitation.

“Don’t stand in the corner, Patrick. There are drinks and geeks and women and men who like drunk geeks and the Cobra is in the house.” Pete smiles an infectious smile and bumps Patrick’s arm with his. “If your limbless hottie’s here, then go show her that my Lunchbox could be hers. And if she’s not, screw her Sherilynn Fenn ass and find someone new.”

“Yeah.” He senses Pete’s skeptical look and meets his eyes. “I will. I promise. And you go drape yourself over Gabe so he can’t ever leave you again.”

“Assuming I can get past those girls. I’m pretty sure those breasts are barely-concealed weapons.”

“Good luck.” Patrick manages a smile though it hits the back of Pete’s head as he walks toward the bar and Gabe. Patrick turns and heads in the opposite direction, snagging a beer off one of the passing trays and heading for the back corner of the club.

Ashlee sinks into the chair next to him about a half hour later, setting a fresh beer in front of him. “How long?”

“What?” Patrick glances over at her, unable to keep from smiling. He knows it’s not perfect, but he’s pretty sure Pete and Ashlee are as close as anyone can be, perfect for each other.

“How long?” She’s drinking something out of a glass, all sweetness and alcohol.

“Right.” He licks his lips and turns his eyes back to the party. “How long what?”

There’s no chance that anyone can hear them over the rest of the party, but she drops her voice anyway. “How long have you had a thing for Gabe?”

Heat flares inside him and Patrick shakes his head, even though it’s clear from Ashlee’s face that she’s not buying it. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Maybe it’s just because I’m around all of the ‘we’ll make out with who we want’ posturing so much, or maybe because I’m married to Pete, or maybe it’s just because of what you mean to Pete, but I can read it all over you, Patrick.”

“Well, you’re reading it wrong.” He drains his bottle, having a hard time swallowing the lump in his throat along with the beer. “I think you’re reading too much into me letting Pete kiss me on stage.”

“Patrick…”

“No.” He shakes his head. “This is _my_ life, and I have enough fans and detractors on the internet subscribing sexual motives to everything I say or do or don’t do. I don’t need it from my friends.” He gets up, shaking his head in denial or frustration or reprimand, he’s not sure. “Tell Pete I said goodbye.”

**

He feels guilty for a while, enough that he sends Ashlee flowers in apology. She leaves a message on his voicemail when he doesn’t answer his phone, thanking him and telling him there’s no reason to apologize. Patrick doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t call back to argue.

He goes to Los Angeles for two weeks and he’s there when they announce the Cobra summer tour with Weezer, sees Rivers at an event and warns him that he has no idea what he’s in for. Rivers just laughs and assures Patrick he can handle Gabe Saporta. Patrick doesn’t bother to warm him about Victoria. Some lessons just have to be learned.

“You know, just because we’re taking a break from each other, it doesn’t actually mean you get to ignore me, right? I thought we covered this.”

He’s surprised to hear from Pete in a way. He’d expected a shitstorm of mocking over Ashlee’s assumptions, but all he ever got was a message telling him he was a pussy for leaving early and a message after the flowers telling him to stop hitting on Pete’s wife in ways that made Pete look bad.

“I’m in L.A.”

“No excuse, dude. You’ve got a webcam. I accept internet P-Stump. Don’t make me read fanfic about us, duder. I always feel dirty afterwards.”

“As you should.”

“I don’t know. Apparently I have awesome blowjob skills.”

“I thought you were always a creep, a rapist, a pedophile or invisible.”

“Only in my _favorite_ ones. Sometimes I just blow you in non-creepy ways.”

“I hate to shatter your delusion, Pete, but there is no non-creepy way for you to blow me.”

“You want me and you know it.” He can hear Pete’s smile. “Hey! Speaking of parties.”

“We weren’t.”

“Only because you suck at providing segues. Anyway. Speaking of parties, my birthday’s in a couple of weeks. Which means you need to get your ass back to Chicago.”

“Of course I’ll be there. You know that.”

“Oh, I know that. That’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling to make sure you’re not going to make a play for my woman at the party.”

“Why would you think that?”

“Because you’re a sneaky Romeo. Which, since you brought it up, why yes. Costumes are mandatory.”

“Accusing me of trying to cuckold you is better than telling me about costumes?” Patrick is quiet for a minute thinking. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” He blows out a resigned breath. “Okay, Wentz. What’s the theme?”

“Tim Burton movies. Hemmy’s coming as Family Dog. Or possibly the attack rubber duck from _Nightmare_.”

“Do you do this just to torture me?”

“No I do it because it’s the coolest idea since the Star Wars party. Torturing you is totally an added bonus.”

“I hate you.”

Pete can’t quite manage a Barry White level of seduction, but the effort makes Patrick smile. “You know you love me, baby.”

“Yeah, yeah. Better proof than anything else how hard up I am.”

“Still no luck on her brain damage?”

“Pete.” Patrick isn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. “There is no brain damage.”

“She’s not desperately in love with you. There’s obviously something wrong with her.”

“Pete. Please?”

He’s quiet again then blows out a breath that Patrick knows is surrender. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I don’t need someone else to be happy.”

“I know.” Pete’s serious and Patrick can hear Bronx in the background, babbling loudly. “But you like her. Whoever she is.”

“We’re friends. That’s enough.”

“I could…”

“No.”

“Right.” Pete agrees. “I’ll behave.”

“Don’t make promises you know you won’t keep.”

“Fuck you.”

“I can’t wait until Bronx starts talking. Honestly.”

“Just for that, if you don’t have a costume, I’m not even letting them let you in.”

“If I show up without a costume, I don’t get to come to the party?”

“That’s right.”

“Then you don’t get a present.”

“Hey! Wait a min-”

Patrick hangs up laughing and boots up his MacBook to book a flight to Chicago.

**

The three couches are overflowing and the tables are each surrounded by twice as many people as there are chairs, bodies piled on top of each other like some human Jenga game, everything teetering precariously as people mingle. Patrick makes the rounds, some people easily recognized and others nearly impossible to tell behind their costumes.

William is in the corner with Tom Conrad, his lanky frame a perfect match for his Jack Skellington costume. Tom’s dressed as Bela Lugosi, probably lisping around his fangs. Travis and Carden aren’t too far from them, both dressed as Ed Wood, complete with angora sweaters. “That is just fucked up.”

“That’s nothing,” a passing Beetlejuice – Siska maybe? – says to him. “You should see the kids.”

Patrick follows his nod to see Andy’s Willy Wonka surrounded by Spencer and Brendon _and_ Jon and Ryan all dressed as Oompa Loopmas. Shaking his head, he ventures further into the party, looking for the center of everything. He nods to Greta – the Martian girl from Mars Attacks! – and Disashi – Batman sans nipples – while working his way deeper into the room. Pete’s off the makeshift dance floor with Ashlee, dressed as Victor and his Corpse Bride. Mikey Way is beside them, dressed all in black, which Patrick is pretty fucking sure doesn’t count as a costume, since it’s Mikey’s everyday attire.

“Hey.” He gestures to his tux and glasses with the flashlight in his hand, a Clandestine bartskull cut out of the masking tape covering the light, rather than the bat signal. “Costume.” He shines the light on Mikey. “No costume.”

Mikey gives Patrick a steady look that gives nothing away then reaches up and rumples his hair, tugging it from its styling gel and leaving it an uneven mess. “Tim Burton. Costume.”

“Smart ass.”

Mikey bows almost imperceptibly and Patrick smiles. There are pockets of conversation that fade in and out around them as Patrick watches the crowd, half listening to Pete telling Mikey about Bronx’s latest adventure, trying to figure out who the milling people are. He stills when skin-tight leather catches his eye and whatever he thought of Michelle Pfeiffer in Batman Returns is completely replaced by Victoria Asher as Catwoman.

“Holy shit.” He’s not sure who says it – him, Pete, Mikey or Ashlee or some combination of them. Patrick looks at Mikey.

“Happily married.”

His gaze goes to Pete who’s silent until he gets a hard jab from Ashlee. “Ow. What? Oh. Oh. Yeah. Love you, babe.”

Patrick doesn’t glance at Ashlee. “So. Cobra’s here.” He sees Ryland and Suarez – Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman respectively – and Nate as Sweeny Todd, apron and straight-razor both splattered with blood for effect. Swallowing hard, he tries not to seek out Gabe, but Gabe’s not easy to ignore at his normal height and it’s even more difficult when he’s wearing four-inch white platform shoes. A bicycle bell chimes high-pitched and cuts through the music and then Gabe’s there in too-tight gray suit, powdered face, too red lips and slicked back hair.

Pete’s laughing hard enough that he’s got tears in his eyes. “Fuck. Dude. _Dude_. You totally wore that just so you have an excuse to jerk off in public.”

“Fuck you, Wentz. I don’t need an excuse to do that. Besides, it adds meaning to my gift.” He hands Pete a bottle from the basket of his bike – his fucking _bike_ \- “No worms in this shit.” It’s top shelf tequila, probably smooth enough to fuck you before you even know your pants are down. Gabe straddles the bike and rings the bell again. “I get a shot.”

Pete’s grinning like a maniac, happier than Patrick’s seen him in a long time. It’s not a crowd of screaming fans, but it is a group of people that love him a lot. Patrick turns away, matching Pete’s smile and finds himself looking directly at Gabe. “Hi.”

 

Gabe nods. “Patrick. Where’s Vicki Vale?”

“Who?”

“Vicki Vale. You’re Bruce Wayne, right? You have _seen_ the movie?”

“Yeah, but…I don’t know? I don’t know if anyone dressed up as her.”

“What about _your_ someone?” He doesn’t actually wait for an answer, just pushes off with his feet, turning the bike and wobbling away. Patrick stares after him, watching him weave through the crowd toward a tall blonde – ironically, Patrick realizes, dressed as Vicki Vale – and two other obviously fake blondes doing their best Winona Ryder impersonations.

Patrick doesn’t realize there’s a silence until Pete breaks it. “Gabe?” His voice is an angry, gruff snarl. His hand’s like a vice around Patrick’s elbow as he pushes him forward.

“Pete…” Ashlee’s voice dies off as he stops walking long enough to turn around and glare at her.

“You _knew_.” He doesn’t say more, doesn’t need to, and Patrick lets Pete shove him into the bathroom. There are a couple of apes that make a hasty exit as soon as they see Pete’s face, and he releases Patrick when they’re alone.

“Don’t be mad at Ash.”

“Your…your _someone_ was Gabe?” It’s not quite a shout, but it’s close, a raised voice with a hint of hurt and anger and disbelief in it.

“Pete…”

“You told me you had a _girlfriend_.”

“No.” Patrick shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants, realizing he’s lost his flashlight. “You asked if I had a girlfriend and I said something like that.”

“A _boyfriend_ is not something like a girlfriend,” Pete snaps then growls in frustration. “Boyfriends are _boys_.”

“Yes. By definition, and considering we were just hanging out with your wife and _your_ ex-boyfriend, you’ve got a lot of balls giving me shit right now.”

“Since when do you like _guys_ , Patrick?”

“I don’t like guys.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I mean…I like Gabe.”

“Who is a _guy_.”

“If this is your stupid fucking ‘Patrick belongs to Pete and if he’s going to take it up the ass, it’s going to be your dick doing it’ bullshit, I’m not even close to being in the mood.”

“No, this is my ‘I’m a little surprised that my previously solely heterosexual best friend is hot for a _guy_ ’ bullshit.”

“So, love isn’t a binary, zero-sum game only applies to you?”

“What? No. Fuck. Don’t be such a… _love_?”

“It’s an _expression_.”

Pete walks over and punches the bathroom wall with his fist then turns and glares at Patrick. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Let me think back over the last ten minutes and see if an answer comes to mind. Oh, yeah. Maybe I thought you’d freak the fuck out, which is not only hypocritical but completely unnecessary given that Gabe and I haven’t talked in months and, oh yeah, he’s got tonight’s harem already started.”

Pete leans back against the sink, curving his hands over the edges of it, his knuckles white. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is softer now. Calmer.

“Because it was pointless. It _is_ pointless. Gabe stopped texting me, so he’s barely interested in being friends, much less anything more. So, please, Pete. Don’t do or say anything, okay? Please? For me?”

“I won’t.” He nods and pushes off the sink and tangles Patrick in a hug. “Secret’s safe with me.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t really believe Pete so much as he believes Pete won’t do it on purpose. “We should get you back to your party.”

**

The air outside is heavy and humid, though there’s the hint of a breeze coming off the lake. He’s taken off his tux jacket and bowtie, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. There are a couple of other people outside, most of them smoking in the hazy lights of the parking lot. Patrick’s against the building, leaning on the rough brick, hidden mostly in darkness.

He hears Gabe before he sees him, the clomping of his shoes, the whir of the bike wheels. He stops the bike in front of Patrick and straddles it, his feet on the ground, rolling himself slowly back and forth.

“Aunt Carla says hi.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” He’s not looking at Patrick, his gaze focused somewhere in the distance. “So, you know, _hola_.”

“Tell her hi back. _Hola_.”

“Dude. Please don’t try to speak Spanish. My people have suffered enough.” He stops moving for a moment then starts again. “But, yeah. I’ll tell her. She liked you.”

“I liked her too. I like all of your family. Except Jaime. He was a little...”

“Like the Uruguayan equivalent of Mike Carden?”

Patrick nods emphatically. “ _Yes_. That’s it exactly.”

“I know, right?” There’s a flash of a bright smile, Gabe’s white teeth in the dark. “At least we’re not closely related.”

“I thought he was your cousin.”

“By marriage. Totally different.” He puts his feet back on the pedals and rides in a slow, slightly unsteady circle. “Pete says you’ve been pretty busy lately.”

“Some.” He stays against the wall, watching as Gabe’s circles get bigger and bigger before he slides the bike to a stop in front of Patrick, heels skidding on the concrete. “Nothing too exciting.”

“I don’t know. Heard you’re working with some pretty big names.” He still isn’t looking at Patrick, but he’s stopped the restless movement. “I guess I misunderstood. I thought you were seeing somebody.”

“Even if I were,” Patrick pauses, taking his hands from his pockets and crossing his arms over his chest, caught up in watching Gabe’s profile. “Why should that change our communication? I mean, unless that someone was one of your ex-girlfriends or family members.”

“Dude, you’re not man enough for Aunt Carla, so don’t even.”

“I promise, your aunt’s virtue is safe with me.”

“I don’t know, man.” Gabe casts a quick glance at him, and Patrick has to duck his head to hide his smile. “She thought you were pretty cute.”

“Well, she’s obviously as unstable as Jaime.”

A smile tilts the corner of Gabe’s mouth, but his expression is serious. “She also thought you were my boyfriend.”

“I…wait, what?” Patrick stands up, his hands falling to his sides as he stares at Gabe. “She thought what?”

“That we were together.”

“But you told her we weren’t.”

Gabe’s ghost of a smile fades completely at Patrick’s panicked tone. “Yeah. I told her. Don’t worry. Your heterosexuality is still intact.”

“That’s not what I…”

“I gotta go.” Gabe turns his focus to his handlebars, on rebalancing on the bike. “Tell Pete I said happy birthday.”

“Gabe. Wait. That’s not…” He stops, not bothering to finish his thought to the empty air. He spins around and kicks the wall hard, whimpering beneath his breath as pain shoots through his ankle. “Fuck.”

**

Pete opens the door with one hand, the other one busy rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He blinks at Patrick and yawns. “It had better be Monday.”

“Sunday.”

“Patrick. You know the rules,” Pete’s voice fails at being stern, ending up more of a whine. He finishes with his eye and reaches down to scratch his balls, shoving his hand beneath the waistband of his boxer-briefs. “Twenty-four hours between when the last guest leaves and waking up.”

“I really need someone to talk to.”

“Except for emergencies.” Pete steps back. “And Lunchboxes. Come on in.”

There are boxes and bags scattered through the living room, even though Pete had said no gifts and suggested everyone donate to charity instead, but everybody just did both, so he’s got liquor, toys, DVDs and music. “Your birthday gifts are like a seventeen-year-old’s wet dream.”

“My parents get me socks and underwear.”

“You do realize that last part is kind of disturbing, right?”

“Yeah, but they know I’d probably never get new ones otherwise.” Pete yawns and sits on the couch, tugging his knees up to his chest. “I’m guessing from the fact that you’re here that you and Gabe didn’t make wild monkey love last night.”

“I’m pretty sure I can’t think of any circumstances where me and Gabe and wild monkey love would ever coincide.”

“That’s because you haven’t slept with Gabe yet.” Pete yawns a gain and tugs a throw over himself, pulling it up to his chin. “Wait, do you _want_ to sleep with Gabe?”

“Right now I’d like to have a conversation with Gabe that doesn’t end with one of us walking off in a huff.” Patrick walks around the room, looking at the generic pictures on the wall.

“Duder. You’re making me dizzy. Sit.”

Patrick comes over to the couch and sinks down, staring at the vomit-colored paper spilling out of one of the gift bags, not sure what to say.

“Start with something simple, Patrick. You guys had a good time in Uruguay?”

“Yes.”

“Talked. Hung out. Told secrets. Braided each other’s hair.” Patrick gives Pete a look and Pete holds his hands up in surrender. “And you kept talking. After?”

“Yes.”

“And so you were thinking about him. A lot.”

“All the time.”

“Even when you weren’t, suddenly you were, right? Just, ‘oh, I have to tell Gabe such and such’.” He doesn’t let Patrick answer. “And then you couldn’t _stop_ thinking about him. At all. Right as you woke up. In the car. In the shower. In bed.”

“Fuck.” Patrick buries his head in his hands. “What the fuck am I doing, Pete? It’s _Gabe_. I’ve known Gabe for years.”

“Maybe the timing’s right. Or maybe you didn’t really know him.”

“But I don’t like _guys_.”

“You answered that one yourself last night. It’s not _guys_. It’s Gabe. It’s a person, not a sex. Welcome to the world of the bisexual, Patrick. Be prepared for people to tell you that you don’t exist.”

“But Gabe…”

“Duder.” Pete shifts on the couch so he’s facing Patrick. “Look, this can go two ways. You can drop everything. Pretend it never happened.” He’s watching closely and Patrick wants to look away. “Plausible deniability is an awesome thing, but it also leaves you wondering what if.”

“What’s the other option?”

“You do something about it. You talk to him. You tell him you like him. Or, you know, since it’s Gabe, you corner him somewhere and grab his junk.”

“I’m not grabbing Gabe’s anything.”

“Well, the sex is going to suck then.” Pete dodges the pillow Patrick throws at him. “Look, you have to do something if you want it, because I’m pretty sure Gabe’s not going to make the first move.”

“There’s also the possibility that Gabe’s not going to make the first move because he’s not interested. You know that right?” Pete starts laughing and Patrick grabs another pillow to throw, resisting the urge to kick his best friend. “What’s so funny?”

“Patrick, I love you dearly, but you are absolutely clueless and, coming from _me_? That’s kind of scary.”

“Pete.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. Patrick is getting really tired of getting laughed at.

“Okay, okay. At the party? When he asked you about your Vicki Vale?”

“Yeah. Because he thought I was seeing someone.”

“No, Patrick. Because he was jealous of the someone he thought you were seeing.”

“Jealous?”

Pete nods, completely failing to keep from smiling. “Jealous.”

“Of me?”

“Of the thought of you with someone else.”

“Gabe?”

“ _Yes_!” Pete laughs, voice tinged with exasperation. “Gabe was jealous because he thought you were with someone else.”

“But…”

“No. No buts.” Pete points at him. “Call him. Text him. Ask him out to lunch.”

“But…”

“Ask him out or get over it.” Pete informs him. “Two choices.”

“Right.” Patrick nods. “But what if he says no?”

“On the off chance that happens, then at least you know you did it. You tried. You didn’t leave it undone or unasked. But he won’t say no.” Pete stands up and stretches, shorts riding even lower on his hips. “Now, go away so I can go back to bed.”

**

He calls Cobra’s manager first, just to see how much longer they’re slated for Chicago. It’s good timing – two days off before they have a show in town. Sometimes, it pays to know the boss.

Of course, after that, he can’t seem to work up the nerve to actually call Gabe. He thumbs his phone, rubbing the touch screen until he accidentally pushes too had and it beeps at him, vibrating against his palm. “Man up, Stump,” he mutters to himself, scrolling through his contacts. He pushes the button and holds his breath, biting his lower lip until it hurts.

“Saporta’s house of sin and sexpots.”

“Do you have a take-out menu?”

There’s a strange quiet, uncertain, and he can picture Gabe’s face, eyebrow raised and lips turned in the hint of a smirk. “Don’t let Wentz hear you say that. He’s convinced you’re as pure as an angel’s ass.”

“I’m honestly not sure how pure that is.” He can hear Gabe’s huff of laughter and keeps talking. “And I don’t want to know, honestly.”

“It’s really pure. Angels don’t do shit, man. Literally or metaphorically. I mean, just think of the purest thing ever-”

“Purer than Dove soap? Because that’s ninety-nine and four-tenths pure.”

“…and that’s how Wentz sees you.”

“Pete’s kind of delusional.” Patrick blows out a nervous breath. “So I kind of came across as a homophobic asshole the other night.”

“Yes.”

He nods even though Gabe can’t see him. He deserves that. “I’d like to take you to lunch. To make up for it.”

“You would, huh?”

“Yes. And you might as well agree, because you’ll end up saying yes eventually, because if you say no now, you know I’m going to call Pete and he’ll pester you until you cave. So save us both the trouble.”

“Why? I mean, why should I save you the trouble?”

“No reason, except Pete was kind of pissy when I woke him up this morning, so you can only imagine how he’d react if he got woken up _again_.”

“Sure, sure.” Patrick can tell Gabe’s enjoying himself. “But he’d be pissed at you. Not me.”

“Unless I tell him that you being a pissy brat is the only reason I’m calling. So, please?”

“Where are you taking me?”

Patrick had researched vegetarian restaurants and then called Andy for his recommendations. Patrick mentions the second to last on Andy’s list of acceptable places, figuring it will be the less strident than the top three. Either way, it’s supposedly good and it’s moderately expensive. Gabe makes a noise. “I don’t put out on the first date, Stump.”

“We both know that’s a complete fucking lie.”

Gabe laughs. “Yeah. True. Pick me up in an hour.”

Patrick changes clothes twice then goes through four different hats before he settles on the jeans he started with, a blue shirt and a gray jacket Pete gave him for Christmas that matches his gray wool fisherman’s cap. He goes out to his car and takes a few deep breaths, staring out at his quiet street. He considers calling Pete and synchronizing their watches, making sure he’s heard back from Patrick within twenty-four hours, but instead he just starts driving.

Gabe’s hotel isn’t too far from the restaurant, so Patrick leaves his car with the valet and goes into the lobby, texting Gabe that he’s there. Gabe comes out of the elevator dressed in black jeans and a purple and black plaid shirt over a plain black t-shirt. He’s not wearing a ball cap and his hair is thick and full like he needs a haircut. Instead he runs his fingers through it and cocks his head at Patrick. They start walking, Gabe tempering his stride the way he does whenever he walks with someone shorter.

It’s kind of awkward, a weird silence that’s not completely natural, but Patrick doesn’t mind too much. His head is racing and his palms feel sweaty, still unsure of what he wants to say, what he’s going to do. He hurries the last few steps, opening the door to the restaurant for Gabe. Gabe cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, moving into the lobby and waiting for Patrick to join him. Patrick made reservations, but it takes a while to get his name out, given how dry his throat is. They end up seated eventually and Gabe hides his smile behind the menu until Patrick kicks him and he gives up, laughing softly.

“Stump. You’re acting like you’re on your prom date.” Gabe smiles at the waitress as she walks up. He orders and Patrick scrambles to pick something, hoping he doesn’t end up with stir fried wheat grass and carrot juice. “Relax. I promise I’m a vegetarian, so I’m not going to bite you or anything.”

“So it’s not going to be anything like my prom date then.”

Gabe laughs and stretches his legs, one of them easing between both of Patrick’s. It’s easy after that, falling into conversation about music and books and picking up where they’d left off somewhere in Australia. They argue about the newest radio sensation – Gabe loves trashy pop, Patrick is a musical purist – and Patrick eats half of Gabe’s food, stealing bites across the table. Gabe tries to stab him with the fork, but Patrick’s known Pete Wentz too long for anyone to manage that.

“You have your own food.”

“Yours is better.” Patrick sucks on this fork, getting the last of the habanera garlic hummus. His mouth is burning a perfect amount and he can’t help smiling at Gabe’s irritated gaze as he takes the very last bite. “I left some for you.”

“You’re buying me dessert for that.”

“You’d better definitely put out then.” Patrick tosses him the dessert menu, watching Gabe’s face as he reads through it, obviously trying to gauge where Patrick is coming from. It’s strangely easy – flirting, teasing – but the things he said at Pete’s party are still shadowing Gabe’s eyes, even when he gives as good as he gets. He waits until Gabe orders and is about to broach the subject when the waitress sets a slice of something in front of Gabe. Patrick makes a face, something akin to disgust, when Gabe takes the first bite. “Okay, I get the rest of it. I really do. But that fake chocolate is against all laws of god and man.”

“Exactly, which means you won’t be stealing any of it.” He spears a huge bite and chews on it methodically, his look of triumph not quite as powerful as it would be if he didn’t look like he was chewing sand. Patrick doesn’t say anything, just pushes Gabe’s glass of water closer. He takes it with another glare and drains it, shoving the plate of dessert away. “Okay. Fine. You win.”

“I’ll take you to the ice cream shop across the street. They have yogurt and soy stuff, so your vegetarian sensibilities won’t be completely offended.” He waves for the check and pays, knowing he needs to talk about this and stop putting it off, but the relaxed feeling is too hard to give up given that he’s missed it for so long.

“I guess that’ll suffice.” Gabe waits for Patrick to sign the check and then they walk across the street. The ice cream is much more tolerable, though it doesn’t last long in the summer Chicago heat. “So. Not that I don’t appreciate someone else paying to feed me, but I’m suspecting there’s an ulterior motive in all this.”

“I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

“No.” Gabe shakes his head and dumps is napkin in the trashcan near the door of his hotel. “I mean, I’m sure you did, but you did that, and there’s something else.” He tilts his head, watching Patrick. “Isn’t there?”

Patrick blows out a breath and tosses the last part of his cone in the trash. “Yeah. Yeah, there is. But it’s not really…lunch conversation. Or public conversation or…possibly not even conversation that we should have, but I need to have it, so…”

“You want to come up?”

“Yeah.” Patrick nods. “Yeah. I think I do.”

**

Gabe’s room is crowded with stacks of clean laundry; all of his shirts folded carefully and precisely, the physical evidence of his edge of compulsion, a complete antithesis of his hyperactive nature. Patrick likes the dichotomy. The two shouldn’t exist together, but they do. He’s watched Gabe fold the shirts before.

Gabe carefully places a stack in the drawer. He always uses the drawers in hotels, no matter how long the stay, even if it’s just overnight. They all have a long history of teasing him about it, but today Patrick just hands him the next stack. “I have a question.” Patrick doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “You wear the same shirt almost the whole tour, every time. Why do you bring so many?”

“Have to be prepared.”

Patrick nods, though he can’t help his smile. “Gabe Saporta. Boy Scout. That’s totally going to destroy your reputation, you know.”

“Only if you tell,” Gabe reminds him, sliding the last stack of shirts into place. Patrick shoves his hands into his pockets and steps back, putting distance between them. Gabe watches him, mouth curved slightly. “So.”

“So.” He has no idea what to say, what to do. He’s moments away from actually taking Pete’s advice and grabbing him when Gabe starts laughing. “What?”

“You look constipated.”

“Fuck you.”

“Seriously, Stump. Whatever you’ve got to say, it can’t be _that_ bad, can it?”

“God, you are such a fucking dick.”

“Yeah? So like that’s fucking news.” Gabe shakes his head. “So come on. Get it off your chest. What is it? You’ve developed a sudden case of homophobia from overexposure to Wentz?”

“I apologized for that.”

“I pissed you off? I hit on your girlfriend? I hurt your feelings?”

“I think about you.” Patrick says it in a rush, words falling over each other.

Gabe stops, his expression a cross between mockery and confusion. “And that pisses you off?”

“Yes. No. Shut up!” Patrick snaps and the familiar heat of argument floods through him. This is how he pushes past them – Pete and Gabe and their mocking diva tendencies, their frantic need to be the center of everything. “Shut up before I come to my senses.”

“Wow, _that’s_ one way to…”

Patrick gives in and fists both hands in Gabe’s shirt, jerking him forward until he stumbles into Patrick, hands reaching out to steady himself and landing on Patrick’s hips. “Shut up,” Patrick breathes, rising up on his toes to press a tentative kiss to Gabe’s mouth. Gabe doesn’t push Patrick away, but he doesn’t respond either, and when Patrick pulls back, Gabe’s staring at him wide-eyed. “Just…shut up, okay?”

“What was that?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” he snaps. “Do you _ever_ do what people tell you?” Patrick can’t quite loosen his grip on Gabe’s shirt; his body isn’t listening to anything but the part of his brain that wants to pull Gabe against him again. Patrick exhales shakily. “So.”

“So?” Gabe looks at him like he’s gone crazy. “That’s your answer? _So_?” He glances down at Patrick’s hands in his shirt and then back up at his face. “Seriously, Stump. What the fuck?”

“It was a…I…” He can feel the heat beneath his skin, the hot flush of embarrassment creeping up his chest and neck. He shakes his head and swallows hard. “I really fucking hate Pete sometimes.” He slides a hand up to the back of Gabe’s neck, tugging him down into another kiss.

Patrick’s experience with kissing guys begins and ends with Pete, rough stubbled skin against his jaw and warm, moist breath against his cheek. This is nothing like that. This is the rasp of skin on skin, the hard flat plane of Gabe’s chest against his own, the slow, burning response of Gabe’s mouth opening against his.

“Oh God.” Patrick’s breath hitches in his lungs, his words lost against Gabe’s tongue as it licks at Patrick’s lips then slides between them, pushing into his mouth. Anything else comes out as a low groan as Gabe’s hand curves around Patrick’s hip and his tongue tangles with Patrick’s, sucking on it with deliberate purpose.

Patrick pulls back to breathe, a rough gasp that doesn’t come close to filling his lungs. He doesn’t have to move in, Gabe is already there again, catching Patrick in another kiss. His head is swimming, mind trying to process and remember every sensation, desperate to catalog the feelings and sounds overwhelming him.

Gabe’s eyes are hooded, his irises almost obscured by his pupils. His mouth is wet and red, shiny as he licks his lips and stares down at Patrick’s mouth. “If Wentz put you up to this,” Gabe’s voice rumbles down Patrick’s spine, rough and deep, “I’m kicking both your asses.”

“It’s not…this isn’t…” He can’t make his words work, so he pulls Gabe down again, stealing another kiss, not pulling back until his lungs are burning. “Not Pete. Nothing to do with Pete.” He unclenches his fist from Gabe’s t-shirt, smoothing the fabric and feeling the fast, heavy beat of his heart. “Me. Me and you.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Stump.” Patrick knows it’s a warning, but it feels like a plea as well. He shivers as Gabe’s hand shifts on his hip, thumb finding skin beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“O-oh.” Patrick gasps and his hips rock forward. He feels the press of Gabe’s muscled thigh between his legs, against his cock, and what little brainpower he’s kept a tenuous hold on disappears completely. “Oh god, Gabe.” He thrusts against him, hips rolling into the contact as Gabe groans low and hot and kisses him again.

“God,” Gabe murmurs against his mouth. “Fuck, Patrick. Yes.” His teeth catch Patrick’s lower lip, biting and sucking and Patrick’s hips respond, jerking forward helplessly. Gabe’s free hand fists in Patrick’s hair, tugging lightly as he walks them backwards, sinking onto the bed and pulling Patrick down next to him, Gabe tightening his grip to tilt Patrick’s head, guide the kiss.

Patrick feels like he should be begging, gasping, groaning, but all he can do is match Gabe kiss for kiss, every sound lost in Gabe’s mouth and against his tongue. Gabe leans into him until Patrick is on his back and then he shifts over Patrick. Gabe’s chest is heaving and his hips seem to move of their own accord, thrusting down so his cock slides against Patrick’s hip.

It’s pure instinct, his leg curving around the back of Gabe’s, locking over his knees as his body thrusts up searching for more contact. The shiver runs all the way through Patrick, slamming at the base of his spine and jerking the length of his cock. He groans desperately against Gabe’s mouth and pulls him down, flush against him, needing pressure and friction.

Gabe shifts closer, hips cradled between Patrick’s thighs, his body rocking up and forward. Patrick has thought about this – hard not to with the company he keeps – but the reality is something different, bigger. He and Gabe are grinding together and it feels rougher, more aggressive, even though he knows he’s thrust harder, fucked harder.

Patrick isn’t sure when time stops, but it seems to, his and Gabe’s chests both heaving, another matching rhythm in the rough sound. Gabe is usually good at hiding things behind masks of bullshit and bravado, but he seems raw and exposed as he stares down, lips parted on uneven breaths.

“It was you,” Patrick whispers. “All along. The someone. It was you.”

“Okay.” Gabe nods as if Patrick’s saying something reasonable. “You do get why I’m a little…”

“Freaked out?”

“Surprised as fuck.” Gabe corrects him and Patrick reaches up to trace Gabe’s jaw. Gabe stops talking for a moment, closing his eyes at Patrick’s touch. “Since, you know, I was pretty sure you were only interested in women.”

“Oh. No.” Patrick touches Gabe again, amazed at the play of emotion on Gabe’s face – want and fear and doubt and hope. “I’m also into cats.”

Gabe practically chokes on his laugh, resting his forehead against Patrick’s. “Right. I forgot about that.”

“I missed you.” He says the words, but they come out more like a whisper. “Everything. Talking. Spending time together. Just hanging out.”

“So you went straight – no pun intended – to kissing me?”

“No. There was a lot of thinking, analyzing, talking to Pete and freaking out. Way before and right up to the kissing.”

“But the end result was grabbing me. And kissing me.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Hmm.” Gabe nods and traces Patrick’s jaw with his thumb. “Any regrets?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Good.” Gabe smiles and kisses him again, light and soft and lingering like a promise. “I suppose this means I’m going to be getting a visit from Wentz now, huh? Read my warning on the care and keeping of his singer.”

“Maybe. Probably.” Patrick laughs, the sound shaky to his own ears. “That should be fun.”

“For your sake, when he threatens me, I’ll try really hard not to laugh in his face.”

“My sake, huh? He’s your boss.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a contract and he’s got my face tattooed on his leg. So I’m set as far as Pete goes. Obviously I’m doing it for you.”

“No.” Patrick shakes his head. “For us.”

Gabe laughs softly, shaking his head. “Yeah.” He meets Patrick’s in another kiss. “For us.”

**

The after party at Angels & Kings is loud and packed. Pete gets corralled up to the DJ booth as soon as they hit the doors, and Gabe waves at him with three fingers, which Pete answers with his middle finger and a laugh.

Patrick watches from the bar, the Cobras lost in a sea of congratulations and fans. It’s easy enough to keep an eye on where they are; Gabe and Ryland tower over almost everyone else. They move, appropriately enough, like a snake, weaving through the crowd. It’s hard not to smile when they finally reach the bar, an entire entourage crowding the counter. There are extra bartenders working, and Patrick knows drinks for the band were poured as soon as they hit the door. Pete doesn’t like his friends to have to wait.

Gabe sidles up to Patrick, hip-checking him. “Stump.”

“Saporta.” Gabe downs half his drink, angling himself so he’s looking at Patrick, though Patrick’s back is to the floor, so anyone looking at them would think Gabe was watching the writhing mass of dancers. “Good show.”

“Thanks.” He shifts, his hip resting against Patrick’s knee. “You wanna dance?”

Patrick nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”

“Dance.” Gabe sways his hips. “Wanna?”

“Um. No.” Patrick laughs. “Not even.”

“C’mon. It’s not really dancing. It’s kind of grinding to the music.” He gives Patrick a leer. “So. Wanna?”

“No. I really don’t.” Patrick grins at the confusion on Gabe’s face. “Oh, god. Have you never been turned down?”

“Not by my…” Gabe cuts himself off, frowning. They’ve spent the past day and a half talking, occasionally kissing. It’s been weird and strange and Patrick doesn’t know what any of it really means beyond the fact that Gabe now answers his texts again. And calls him his…something.

“Your what?”

“Nothing. Shut up. I’m gonna go dance.” Patrick’s known Pete too long not to recognize pouting no matter who’s doing it, but he doesn’t try to stop Gabe. He turns on his stool instead, watching as Gabe insinuates himself against people, his hips all hint and promise.

Patrick feels a stab of heat at the base of his cock, familiar now with the slow, deliberate roll of those hips, the feel of Gabe pressing against him. Patrick’s fairly certain that Gabe dances like he fucks, and he can’t help thinking about what it would like to be on the floor with him, on the receiving end of all that attention. In public.

“Duder. Patrick.” Pete breaks Patrick’s line of sight with a napkin as he settles on the stool next to Patrick. “You’re blushing. And drooling.”

“Fuck you.”

“Careful. Gabe’s the jealous type.” Pete takes a drink from his water bottle. “Wait. Why aren’t you out there with him?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Patrick. Patrick. Patrick.” Pete shakes his head. “Look at the scene in front of you. Is any of that dancing? No. No, it is not. It’s the semi-legal equivalent of public sex. And you’ve got better rhythm than most of them.”

Patrick skims the crowd, almost ready to concede the point when Gabe catches his eye again. He and William are tangled together; bodies pressed tight, William’s head bent as he says something in Gabe’s ear. Patrick frowns. “Isn’t he married now?”

“Gabe wanted to dance. William didn’t say no.”

“ _That’s_ not dancing.”

“ _That’s_ what I’m trying to tell you.” Pete takes another drink then sets his empty bottle on the bar behind them. He’s almost smiling, the hints of it at the corners of his mouth. “Damn, Bill gets friendly.”

“I hate you,” Patrick mutters into his beer.

“You know what this calls for, don’t you?”

“I know. I know.” Patrick slides off his stool, glaring at Pete. “A rescue mission.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Patrick.” Pete’s full-on grinning now and shooing him away. “The last one didn’t turn out so bad, did it?”

Patrick swallows his nerves and heads onto the dance floor toward Gabe, answering Pete with a text.

“ill let u know.”

**

The first time they have phone sex, Patrick has to hang up in the middle of it from sheer embarrassment and uncontrollable laughter. Gabe doesn’t speak to him for a week afterwards and Patrick has to sweet talk Pete into giving him insider information so he can make sure Gabe has all his favorite things waiting for him at the next venue and extras to load onto the bus. That night he gets a call at four AM from a very drunk, still stage-high Gabe, his voice buzzing along Patrick’s nerves, already tense from anticipation.

This time there’s no laughing and no embarrassment, just the hot slide of Gabe’s voice down Patrick’s spine and the desperate gasping from both of them when they come. Patrick’s breathing settles, and he closes his eyes, listening to Gabe. “I hope you know this doesn’t mean I’m buying you shit every time we have sex.”

Gabe laughs, his voice raw and throaty. “You mean I’m not going to be your kept man? Damn. Guess I’m going to have to earn my living.”

“I guess so.” Patrick pauses, uncertain of what to say. “Call me tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Gabe’s smiling. Patrick can tell. “If you’re lucky.”

**

They meet up in Los Angles for the first tour break. Patrick’s there working with someone famous enough that Gabe’s almost impressed, which Patrick can tell by how much shit Gabe gives him about it every night on the phone. Patrick expects the same when he opens the door, but instead there’s just Gabe, looking nervous and smiling crookedly at him.

“No smart-ass comment?” Patrick asks, his mouth curved in a grin. Gabe’s lost weight, the tour honing him to lean muscle and dark circles under his eyes.

“Hi, honey. I’m home.” Gabe smiles a little more and shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Miss me?”

Patrick nods. “Yeah.” He steps back, giving Gabe room to come inside. “You hungry?”

“No.” Gabe closes the door and sets his bag down. His eyes are dark when they meet Patrick’s. “Come here.”

He walks the few steps between them, stopping right in front of Gabe. He bites his lower lip and smiles. “Did you miss me?”

“Yeah.” Gabe’s fingers trace Patrick’s jaw. “You’re not going to laugh if I kiss you, are you?”

“Only one way to be sure.”

Gabe huffs a laugh and smoothes his thumb over Patrick’s lower lip. Patrick’s tongue darts out, brushing against it and Gabe groans, hand sliding back to cup Patrick’s head. Gabe’s mouth is hot and firm as he parts Patrick’s lips with his tongue, exploring Patrick’s mouth until neither of them can breathe.

“Gabe,” Patrick groans, pressing closer, his hand settling in the small of Gabe’s back. “Fuck.”

“Promises, Stump.” He kisses Patrick again, tongue claiming Patrick’s mouth, fucking it slowly and thoroughly. It’s no huge stretch to think past Gabe’s tongue to what _else_ Gabe could be doing, and Patrick’s cock jerks hard at the thought.

He slides his hand under Gabe’s t-shirt and pushes it out of the way, fingers skating across bare skin. He bites Gabe’s lower lip hard before sucking on it, his other hand fisting in Gabe’s hair as he deepens the kiss.

Gabe doesn’t bother with words, pushing Patrick backwards, past rented white couches and tables covered with notes and computers. His hips roll into Patrick’s with every step, and his hands hold Patrick’s waist, guiding him. “Which way?”

Patrick shudders at the heat in Gabe’s voice, glancing back over his shoulder. “Second door on the left. My left. Your right.” He groans and surges into Gabe, kissing him hard. “Want you. Fuck, I want you.” He’s jerked off to this for months now – Gabe naked and against him. Inside him. He’s come in his fist and on his stomach, gasping Gabe’s name across thousands of miles. Now it’s almost real, almost there, and Patrick reaches for Gabe’s shirt, tugging it up his chest, fingers on bare skin. “Oh, fuck yes.”

Gabe’s voice harmonizes with Patrick’s, a low hum of pleasure as he reaches to help, guiding his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. Patrick takes the opportunity to strip off his own shirt, skin against skin. They both shudder at the same time, and Gabe backs Patrick against the wall in the hallway, framing his face with his hands and kissing him, tongue moving slowly, tortuously. Patrick catches it and sucks, pulling Gabe closer, demanding hands on his hips.

“Fuck,” Gabe gasps, sliding one leg between both of Patrick’s and grinding against him, cock hard on Patrick’s thigh. “Fuck, Patrick.”

“Yes.” Patrick bites Gabe’s lower lip and thrusts against him, the sounds they’re making familiar from phone calls, so different in person. “Yes. Gabe. Yes, please.”

Gabe pulls back, nodding, grabbing Patrick’s hand and tugging him the last few feet to the bedroom. Patrick keeps them moving, his hand working at the button of Gabe’s jeans as he pushes him toward the bed. Gabe laughs thickly, roughly, and grabs Patrick’s hands, stilling them just above the hard bulge of Gabe’s cock. “Wait. Just…” He tightens his grip on Patrick’s wrists as Patrick plants one knee on the bed and leans in, kissing Gabe hard, tongue pushing past his lips. Gabe’s breathless when he pulls back, his face flushed. “Jesus, Stump. Just…just give me a minute.”

“Haven’t seen you in months,” Patrick reminds him.

“I know. _Trust me_ , I know. But you also haven’t ever done this before, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to slow down and be sure we’re both on the same page as to what _this_ is?”

“You said…on the phone. You said you want to be inside me.”

Gabe leans his head back, exhaling roughly. “You’re killing me, Stump.” He raises his head and looks Patrick in the eye. “Yeah. I want that. I want that a lot. I spent four months on a bus jerking off to that. But this is just our first time, not our last. And despite popular belief, I’m not a completely inconsiderate douche bag.”

“But I want…”

Gabe shakes his head, shifting his grip on Patrick’s wrists and bringing him flush against him. Patrick thrusts down, shivering at the pressure. “I want it too. I want you. I want this.” He kisses Patrick slowly, caressing the roof of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. “Trust me?”

Patrick nods, letting Gabe roll them onto their sides. He releases one of Patrick’s hands, reaching between them and undoing Patrick’s fly. His fingers tease the zipper down, barely grazing across the hard press of Patrick’s cock against his boxer-briefs. Even so, Patrick’s hips jerk with the touch and he rolls onto his back.

“Take them off.” Gabe whispers, thick and raw. He works his way out of his own jeans and lets them fall to the floor at the foot of the bed. Patrick does the same, moving up the mattress, up Gabe’s body. Gabe’s gray boxer-briefs are drawn tight across his erection, a dark spot wetly marking the head.

“For me?” Patrick’s voice is almost reverent, awed as he reaches out and trails a finger over the damp fabric, earning a hiss from Gabe. His own boxer-briefs feel too small, too tight everywhere, especially over his cock.

“Stump, I’ve had a fucking hard on for you since we hit California last night.”

“And here I thought I got you off last night talking about how I wanted to taste you. I could swear you came when I said I was going to suck you, wet and deep and tight, feeling you against the back of my throat.”

“Fuck.” Gabe moves in, catching Patrick in a kiss, all sharp teeth and tongue, shutting him up. Patrick’s huff of laughter is cut off by the kiss, by the pressure of Gabe’s palm curving around Patrick’s dick. He arches into Gabe’s hand, breath stuttering as Gabe breaks the kiss, catching in his throat as Gabe’s hand strokes up then pushes Patrick’s boxer-briefs down, wrapping his hand around Patrick’s cock.

“Yes.” Patrick’s muscles cord, drawing tight as he thrusts into Gabe’s hand. His elastic waistband cuts into his skin, but it’s all subjective. Everything here, this right now, is perfect, narrowed down to the grip of Gabe’s hand. It’s hard and tight; Gabe’s long fingers curved around him, the same and different from his own grip. “Oh, god. G-Gabe.”

“Want…fuck. No idea how much I…”

“Yes. I do. I do. Want you, Gabe. So much. Please.”

Gabe kisses him again, and Patrick burns everywhere, want surging like blood in his veins. Nothing feels the same, like he expected. Sex is sex; this isn’t any different than any of the girls he’s done this with. Except it is. Everything feels more intense. More volatile.

He laughs softly, choking on the sound as Gabe rubs his palm over the head of Patrick’s cock. Gabe licks Patrick’s lower lip, making it feel more swollen and bruised. “What’s so funny?” His eyebrow is quirked and, if Patrick were even close to thinking, he’d be worried. Instead he rakes his fingers down Gabe’s bare back, pulling him closer.

“It’s not different, is it? It’s just you?”

“This part?” Gabe’s smiling now. “This part’s pretty much the same.” He kisses Patrick once more, slowly this time. “But yeah. It’s me.” He rubs his thumb along the ridge of Patrick’s cock. “But even if it’s different, Stump?” He waits as Patrick’s hips rock up before pulling back and shoving his boxer-briefs down, moving back in to slide his cock against Patrick’s, shifting his grip so that his hand is wrapped around them both. “It’s still me.”

Patrick groans, his head falling back. His eyes close and he can’t even focus on the hot gust of Gabe’s breath on his throat, all he can feel is the slick slide of flesh, the firm grip of Gabe’s fingers, the friction and the pressure. “G-g…”

Teeth graze Patrick’s throat and his mind goes blank in a white-hot rush. Every nerve ending is on fire, sparking as Gabe’s hand keeps moving, pushing Patrick higher and higher until the world shatters into a million pieces, coalescing into gasped breaths and slick heat.

When Patrick manages to open his eyes, Gabe’s looking down at him, grinning like the cat who at the canary. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Gabe kisses him then moves away, sweat and come pulling at Patrick’s skin in the timeless moment before their bodies separate. He comes back a few minutes later with a warm washcloth, wiping Patrick clean. “Okay?”

Patrick laughs and nods. “Okay. Yes. Very okay. I mean, okay enough that if you guys had told me it was like that, I might have jumped on the whole bisexual bandwagon ages ago.”

“Better late than never.” He kisses Patrick again. “Besides, this way you can say you got here on your own rather than because of Pete or me, so people will just think you’re crazy rather than assuming it was because we’re bad influences.”

“But you _are_ bad influences.”

“Well, yeah.” This kiss is promising as Gabe stretches out next to him, hand resting on Patrick’s stomach. “But you have to admit, sometimes we have _really_ good ideas.”


End file.
